


The Lapwing

by kormantic



Category: Dublin Murder Squad Series - Tana French
Genre: Dominance, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Frank Mackey does things his own way, Frank is not unfaithful to his wife (probably?), Frank mos def reconsiders his position on getting hand jobbed by boys, M/M, Slightly dubious consent, Stephen is the very picture of protect and serve, Submission, Undercover in a Sex Club, discussions of sex trafficking, vivid and explicit fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 01:25:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17033728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/pseuds/kormantic
Summary: I watched his disorganized red head bent over the ID, and just for a second, under the hard throb of triumph—Up yours, Scorchie baby, he’s my boy now—I felt a little pulse of affection towards the kid. It felt good to have someone on my side.Frank Mackey, Faithful Place





	The Lapwing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).



I watched his disorganized red head bent over the ID, and just for a second, under the hard throb of triumph— _ Up yours, Scorchie baby, he’s my boy now _ —I felt a little pulse of affection towards the kid. It felt good to have someone on my side.

_ \--Frank Mackey, Faithful Place _

At the end of the day, Dublin is a tiny town. Everywhere you go, you’re like to walk into a fucker you’d just as well avoid. It’s what makes undercover such a ropewalk, with a shelf life short as milk. Tidily, I won’t be undercover as a bookie’s bagman or a cokehead’s connection. I’ll be me, myself and I for this one. After a fashion.

I’m happy to admit that I’ve got trust issues, that I expect to be in control of any given situation. I’m not above a little intimidation should the occasion call for it. But manipulating a little shit stain into shirking on his boss is nothing to do with this. I enjoy it, sure, but I don’t need to stroke off in the jacks when I’ve gotten the information I need.

But here in The World, I reckon it’s a common occurrence. Not that they bother to head to the jacks for that.

This is a members only club, just the place for those sedate political types who want to wear nappies and be condescended to by ladies in stiletto heels. As such, the fees are steep, and everyone who crosses the threshold signs an NDA. 

Business of the day: I’d put a word in for Young Stephen with Keg Clanahan in Vice, but he’d asked for a favor in return. Some immigrating Ukrainian families had reported girls and two boys gone missing.  _ We could use you, Frank. We’ve a tip there’s a kind of brothel down in Grafton Street. You know the type. Money enough to keep it quiet. Worth a look. I’d be much obliged.  _ With obligations of my own in mind, I’d taken the job.

Stephen’s a step behind me, in a tailored suit he bought back when he was hoping to impress the Murder boys, while I’ve got on jeans and a button up. I get a raised eyebrow from Liv if I’m in a vest on a weekday, so a nice pink Oxford it is, chosen special for the occasion. Stephen had said, “You don’t want to iron it?”  I’d assured him I wasn’t the crisp collar kind, even as I’d stepped up to adjust his tie before clapping him on the shoulder and unlocking the car door to drive him here.

On the way, Stephen was stoic as they come, but I’d needed an idea of what he could handle. 

“I tell you now, I’ll slap you around a bit. You do as I say and don’t be pert. I want you docile and willing to go home with whoever casts an eye at you. Even so, should you feel I’ve crossed a line, you use a safe word we’ll choose now.  If all goes well, by supper tomorrow, we’ll have some frightened kids home with their mammies and some trafficking fucks strung up by their heels. What say you, Young Stephen?”

“Castle,” Stephen replied evenly. “Will do for my safeword. And will we do this again, should it  _ not _ go well?”

I winked at him.

“Never think of it. Negative energy, that is. Let us rely on the power of positive thinking.”

He bridled a bit, but didn’t speak again. Stephen would never admit it, but he’s still nervous of me. I probably prick at his conscience, if nothing else. Scorcher took a hard knock for Faithful Place, and seeing as that’s mostly my fault, you could see why I’d make Stephen uneasy. But he’d agreed readily enough, none of the hemming and hawing of the last time I’d enlisted him.

The club was dim and richly furnished, but there was no music and no bar, just a kitchen through swinging doors at the back. It looked more like some banker’s dining room than anything, but with curtained alcoves for discretion set along the wall like changing rooms at the beach.

Some of them were empty, two had drawn the curtain, and the sound of leather slapping flesh was very plain. One was open, and featured a sort of cushioned platform where a woman wearing thigh high stockings and only that was being eaten out with dedicated enthusiasm by a man in a cowboy hat. Her moans were low and desperate and went straight to my cock. I suppose atmosphere  _ is _ everything.

I’d half-expected the heady pong of smoke and sweat and come, but wooden floors, high ceilings and good ventilation left the air as anonymous as a hotel lobby.

I’d reserved a booth: a circular padded bench stocked with little throw pillows and such. With a thought for Stephen’s knees, I tossed a red sateen thing on the floorboards and pointed.

He knelt with a kind of grace that surprised me, and folded his hands behind his back, eyes lowered. He seemed a league away from that gangly young one with his red hair sweat-matted flat by a bicycle helmet. He was all posh and polished, done up so clean and fresh he almost had that new car smell. 

With his suit jacket falling open just so, arms showing the long lean lines of him, the low light here making his eyelashes long and dark, and his gray eyes half-closed… I didn’t worry that we’d be overlooked.

A waiter brought over a leather-clad menu and took my drinks order, politely ignoring Stephen, and soon enough a fellow stopped at the table, skinny and fey, and looking out of place in a bulky cable knit sweater.

“He’s a lovely creature. Do you share?”

“I might lend him out, for some consideration. But I only fuck _him_ , and never with company.” I grinned toothily and he frowned back.

“That’s a shame,” and he did look disappointed. “But I’m up for it if you are, dear. How about it?” He’d leaned down to peer at Stephen, speaking slowly, as if to a child. Or a young one who mightn’t speak much English. Maybe he wasn't much bothered about _informed_ consent.

Stephen glanced at me and I let him make his choice. 

He shook his head. The other man shrugged.

“Try, try again, as they say,” and our shopper wandered on. While he was still in earshot, I snapped, “You’ll speak when spoken to,” with a little backhand for the spectacle, and there, his cheek had a glimpse of red from the blow. His eyebrows tightened and his eyes were bright with anger. It wasn’t a bad look on him.  

He still looks a student, ginger and freckles, and I’ve seen him blush and it’s truly very pretty, if you’re up for that. It certainly looks as if I am, at least to the patrons of this particular club.

I loosened his tie a bit and unbuttoned his starched shirt - as I’d recommended, he hadn’t worn a vest, and his fair, freckled chest was bared now, just a tuft of fine hair between his pecs. I stroked over one pink nipple and down the side of him, and felt his skin tense under my hand.

I’m more of a forgiveness than a permission type, which I suspect is frowned upon by proper doms, but as we wouldn’t be getting to the whips and chains bit, I thought I’d err on the side of drama, and I slapped him again, just to see what he’d do. He flushed, probably with fury, but kept his mouth shut. 

“Apologize now,” I warned him, and he bent his head and kissed the back of the hand I’d slapped him with, eyes on mine and blazing, but lips warm and soft against the little sting of friction from the contact with the cut of his cheekbone.

“There’s a lad,” I said, and stroked his reddened cheek. He’d colored all along his neck and collarbone, to the middle of his chest, so I gave in to impulse and dragged two fingers down along his sternum. He shuddered a little and sat back against his heels. 

It pulled his trousers tight across his lap, and I could see him pressed up hard against the placket of his flies. Well, well, well.  

I threaded my fingers through his soft, unstyled hair, and pulled his head back to bare his throat. His breath caught, and the sound of it made my cock twitch, so I closed a fist in his hair and jerked his head back a little more to kiss him, fucking his mouth open with my tongue. It was shockingly good, his mouth warm and wet, slack with surprise at first, before he recovered himself, tilting his head to kiss back, eyes fluttering shut and leaning forward to press into my hands.

When I pulled away, he looked dazed, but his hands were still behind his back. 

“Good boy. Ah, you’re gagging for it, aren’t you? D’ya want my cock, sweetheart?”

I saw his Adam’s apple bob, heard him swallow thickly, before sketching a short nod.

“Tell me so, then,” Just touching his damp lower lip, watching it yield to the pad of my forefinger, I wondered how satin soft it’d be against me.

“Sir. I could. I could be so good for you.  _ Please _ .” 

My jeans were buttonfly and I could feel every rivet prod into my dick at, God, the thought of it, that pink mouth, dark and deep, me fucking him ‘til he cried, shooting down his smooth, hot throat. 

But we’d drawn a crowd, as had been the plan really, and I glared at them; I wanted Stephen in one of the dark side rooms with me, where only I would see his bobbing head, hear every wet click and stifled moan as he choked around the thick of me, where that was mine and no one else’s.

Undercover, I’d tumbled a few gangster’s gals while after pillowtalk and a lowered guard, but I’d never particularly  _ wanted _ them. And if you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have sworn that a man didn’t,  _ couldn’t _ do it for me, and I’d looked down my nose at blokes whose balls were so small they ordered their cowed wives or hapless girlfriends around. 

Could be the difference is submission over conquest. If a man brings himself to you, offering all and asking nothing... That might be worth having. Now that I've had a taste of it, I might go far to have another, allowing it was Stephen kneeling for me.

“Maybe later,” I said dismissively, letting his head fall from my hand and flipping through the menu. “If you’re very good.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw him shake himself a little, and his blush deepened as he glanced around; for a moment, he’d forgotten there were other people here. For a moment, he’d truly wanted to suck me, would have begged for it.

He straightened his shoulders, kneeling up again, looking poised and attentive but endlessly patient, waiting for whatever attention I'd spare him.

After a bit, I took his chin and held his eyes.

“I’ve no doubt you’ll be good for me.”

And he licked his lips, nodding jerkily, flushed skin warm against my hand.

“All that kneeling. Must feel it by now. You’re free to sit.”

He made no move to stand up and move to the booth, instead rearranging himself to settle beside me and rest that soft cheek on my thigh, a spot of color still burning high along his fair skin.

The idea of Liv serving me or anyone else rankled like tinfoil against a filling, but there was something peaceful about having Stephen like this. He looked contented enough, sitting almost tailor style, with one leg tucked and the other drawn up, his hand on his bent knee. He leaned companionably against my hip and I found myself with a hand in his hair, stroking it absently. He gentled into it, leaning against me more heavily as he relaxed.   


A stacked redhead approached next, with a ponytailed girl with heavily lined eyes.  

“You look lonely,” the redhead said.

She was wearing a flowered bustier and a pleather miniskirt. The girl had a pink mesh bodysuit and a black satin choker stamped with the image of a cartoon kitten, and a slim rhinestoned leash that led from her collar into the manicured hand of Ms. Lonelyheart. 

“Do I?”

“Wouldn’t you like some company?”

“I could be persuaded.”

“Niki’s very friendly.” Ms. Lonelyheart switched the girl across the jaw with the handle of the leash and the girl folded herself into the booth beside me, placing her glossy head on my shoulder. Lonelyheart sat down at the tail of the bench and smiled approvingly.

“Not very chatty though, are you girl?”

The girl shrugged.

“They’d be pretty together,” Ms. Lonelyheart suggested. 

“Sure enough, but let’s check and see. Niki," I said, lifting my shoulder to nudge her head up. "Go give our lad a kiss, won’t you?”

_ "Vasha mama shukaye tebe,” _ Stephen murmured, and the girl scrambled over me to crouch in front of him and burst into tears. Her leash was pulled taut, but was long enough to let her clutch at his open shirt while unleashing a torrent of what I assumed to be Ukrainian. Stephen took her wrist gently and responded, _“Yelyzaveta, Yelyzaveta, bud’ laska idit’, povil’no ya ne dobro hovoryu…”_

Her name rang a bell, and her reaction to Stephen made it sure she was one of our lost lambs.

Ms. Lonelyheart had frozen, waiting too long to yank the girl’s leash, which Stephen looped around his forearm and neatly wrenched away from her—she tightened her grip out of reflex, and racked herself soundly against the edge of the table for her trouble. I wrapped my hand in the long cool fall of her hair and tugged her toward me, speaking into her diamond-pierced ear, “Hush now, be sensible. If you hold your tongue and we leave before your friends hear about this, I’ll see if we can’t get you a nice, light sentence.”

_“Pryydy z name, i my vidvezemo vas makes stantsiyu, a potim na svoyu mamu,”_ said Stephen in a reassuring tone.

The girl nodded earnestly and took his hand, hauling Stephen to his feet and toward the door of the place. 

I stood up and offered my hand to Ms. Lonelyheart. She was too panicked to be angry yet, so I took the opportunity to quietly identify myself as an officer of the law as I walked her out, still whispering, tender as any lover.

“... if you do say anything, it may be given in evidence.” She blinked heavily mascaraed lashes but didn’t otherwise respond.

“Do you understand? This is the part where you say yes, pet.”

She said,”Yeah. Yes.”

Her reluctant agreement sent a jolt of satisfaction through me so fierce I let out a laugh.

 

///

 

“What’s that bird, the one that makes as though they’ve a broken wing?” I’d watched a load of nature videos with Holly in my time, and sometimes the wildlife on the other side of the glass in the observation room makes me come over all intellectual. Ms. Lonelyheart, a.k.a Bridget Leary-Burns, was busy listing names and looking like a trapped rat while she did it.

“The lapwing? Killdeer do it, too.” I'd suspected Stephen of being the documentary type, and his ready answer only supported that theory.

“That’s you, babe, the killdeer and the cobra. Playing coy to lead snakes away from the kiddies.”

He smiled a little. “I think you mean the tailor bird. From Rikki Tikki Tavi?”

I shrugged. “Point is you’ve done some fine work, and Keg won’t forget it.”

After a pause, Stephen asked, “Will you?” And he looked like he’d be sick, whatever my answer.

“Not likely,” I said. I fixed him with a hungry look and his ears went red.

“You’re married,” he said, a little hoarsely.

“I am, and having finally scrabbled back into Liv’s good graces, I plan to stay that way.” I gave him a slow, filthy grin. “But as I said, I’ve a good memory and not a little imagination.”  

I leaned in, giving him plenty of time to back out before hooking my fingers in his belt and reached up to kiss him. I cupped the back of his head, licking past his soft lips. He gave a sigh so sweet I nearly felt bad about indulging myself. After a while, I let him go and stepped away.

Giving him a once over, I could see he was hard for me again, and I nodded, well pleased.

I deliberately adjusted myself as he gawped at me, half-falling back sprawled against the wall. Apparently my kisses still make for jellied knees, which is only gratifying. 

“See you round, Young Stephen. Your future’s your own now. Let’s see what you do with it.”

And with that, I tipped him a wink and walked out to head home to my wife. 

But not before stroking off in the jacks. The thought of Stephen mouthing at my balls, unbuttoning his shirt with clumsy hands to let me come on his throat, Stephen swiping at the worst of it with toilet roll, to drive home reeking of me, my load drying down his chest in a flaking streak, his own pants sticky and uncomfortable, the placket of his trousers darker around the zipper because he'd gotten off sucking me. Christ Jesus and Mary, I'd like to see that. And I could, I know. Stephen would hate himself, and me, but he'd do it.

So I'll have to behave myself and stay out of his way. He can keep his head down and work his way up the ranks, and I can keep his head down and deepthroating my cock in the darker corners of my imagination.

There's no real reason to run into him again, even in a tiny town like Dublin.

**Author's Note:**

> blueteak my friend, I read your letter and your prompts, and so guided, I decided that Undercover In a Sex Club might serve. I hope you dig it.


End file.
